I'm Not My Own
by Ning Ning
Summary: Their life was based around the fact that they would die during the Final Battle. They didn't. The war is over, and they are still young, kids, now aimless as they figure out what to do with the rest of their life. What do they do now? HBPcompatible, DHR
1. One: Drunk

**I'm Not My Own**

Ning

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter; I am not JK Rowling; I am not doing this for money. The "old in-out in-out" is a quote from Burgess' _A Clockwork Orange_. Title is from Regina Spektor's "Apres Moi le Deluge." I am not making any money from using these quotes.

**Rating:** Eventually R, but this chapter is only PG.

**Warnings:** Sexual, alcoholic, and war references.

_One: Drunk_

"We did it." I say this with an incredulity that makes me want to heave.

"Yeah," Ron agrees. His red hair is matted to his forehead and there are streaks of mud across his cheek. "We're _alive_."

He says this with the same hollowness.

I clutch my stomach and grit my teeth to make sure a sickness doesn't pass through my lips.

We are still standing in the battlefield, our hands stained bloody and our wands glowing faintly. Hexes, curses, spells are heavy in the air and it stick to our skin like leeches. I know our faces are blank canvasses: our mouths slightly open, our brows furrowed. Ron and I look confused; Harry just looks tired.

What we're really going through is disbelief. What we're really trying to grasp onto is the fact that we're _alive_. Oh, glorious blood-soaked day! How fresh and pure the stale scent of dead bodies is now that it holds a different meaning.

This is the end.

I think I whispered the last two words out loud Harry and Ron look at me. Ron, a silly grin that shows his teeth but doesn't crinkle his eyes. Harry, taking a brief break from staring at his palms.

"We have to begin the round-up."

Ron and I nod at Harry's words.

"Yeah," we agree.

Already bodies are moving from the heaps of corpses.

And so it goes. We part, and we would have said, "all right, mates, see you tomorrow," but we can't because the home we live in is our home and we'll just see each other, waiting patiently in line for the bathroom and Ron will go first because he's the quickest and then Harry will go and take almost all the hot water as he screams and howls and everyone will have this sad pained look in their eyes but I will be the only one who goes in and calms him down, all the while the thought nagging if I will have any hot water, and what is in the cupboard to drink tonight.

---

Tonight is the first night of celebration, and we wait patiently in our humming skin for Harry to say the words we've been waiting to hear.

Everyone's breathing is a little erratic but it may just be because of the unlimited amount of alcohol that has been served. But the air is trembling with an intensity that bounces off everyone else and most of us are grinning like dopes.

Harry has one fist gripping a cup of whiskey, his eyes half-closed, "The War…

"The War…" He jabs his finger out uselessly a few times, and we're still waiting.

I get chills as I realize that everyone's holding their breath. It reminds me of the dead people I have killed and gathered. I let out a breath because the realization makes me nervous and I'm ready to finish my own Firewhiskey but Mrs. Weasley looks at me with her hollow eyes and I stop. I stop myself and smile weakly. I think to myself, bloody hurry up Harry so we can just drink.

"Ish over. 'Sh'over." He keeps repeating those two words as if the feel of them is alien to his mouth. "It's over," he mumbles before he opens his eyes. His darling green eyes. How mesmerizing and scary they can be at the same time and I know he's seeking me, seeking Ron. And we both notice that, and we walk towards Harry, our cups firm and full in our hands. And we look at each silently; stupid naïve grins on our faces as everyone continues to party uproariously. Harry kisses me on the forehead, hugging us and Ron fingers the ring on my left hand.

Then he starts rubbing the small of my back.

And I think to myself, why not?

So I don't avoid his eyes and I don't push his hand away and Harry notices and says go ahead man except he's really drunk by this time and it's rather difficult to figure out what he's saying but we do because isn't that what friends are?

And so Harry slaps our backs and I lurch a little forward thinking to myself: just _don't_ spill. Just _don't_ spill. And my drink doesn't and I greedily gulp it down, my throat burning, my eyes watering, my stomach warming.

I know what's going to come, I know he wants to do the "old in-out, in-out" but I'm still nervous. That's acceptable, though, right, right? So I tell Ron, wait.

Hold on.

I'll be back.

Stay with Harry.

He nods and he kisses my lips and whiskey is pungent on our breath and I think the only reason why I grab him closer a little more is because I liked _that_ smell and I liked _that_ taste. I'm greedily moving my lips on his, tonguing the flavor in his mouth and I'm getting thirsty, and I pull back and Ron says, wow.

His lids are heavy and the way he stares me and murmurs wow gets me excited. I squeeze his bicep tightly for a moment and then go off to find the rest of the liquor.

I'm there, pouring myself another shot to get myself loose (ha ha) and calm, when a hand stops me from pouring another one. Even though I'm of legal age, I get a little scared that it's Dumbledore who's caught me (even though I know he's dead), or Snape (even though he's dead, too), or Lupin (where is he, anyway?), or someone else, names I can't even begin to formulate.

But then hot breath is by my ear and I twitch a little, but all he said was, Granger, how many have you had?

And I turn to Malfoy, does it matter?

I laugh at him, it's over!

I wrap my arms around his neck, molding my body to his in a tight hug, we're alive.

Something inside me makes me shudder against him when I say those words. We're alive. Oh god, I grab his cheeks and press my lips against his in a sort of bewilderment, and then I ask him, are you happy? We're alive, the war is over, we're alive, are you happy?

I say, thank you. Do you have a condom?

The poor sod looks so confused that I giggle again and I try to pour myself another shot but I miss the cup and some liquid splashes onto my fingers and I curse a little, bringing my fingers up to my mouth to suck the alcohol off. He says, cut it out, Granger. Don't drink anymore, you're sloshed already.

And then I respond (stupidly, I will tell myself when I have sobered, I told him stupidly, but then forget about it): I can't. Oh Malfoy, I can't! You see, Ron wants to have sex right now and I mean, why not, right? We should, right?

He looks so disgusted and I hear him mutter under his breath, fucking shit. He says, fuck. I think we both need more shots. Fucking revolting, you lot.

So we toast and then we smile at each, his hair the same color as the bright lights above us, almost blinding, I swear, and I want to say, oh, Malfoy.

Oh, Malfoy.

But then his eyes squint, eyes steely, and then I feel a hand on my hip, and it's Ron and he says, you ready?

I think to myself, as ready I will ever be.

But I say to him, yes. Yes yes yes.

So we go upstairs, each step heavy and punctuated with laughs, and kisses, and teenage groping because essentially that's what we still are. And then we open the door to his room and we stumble on to the bed and later think, well it's only the first time. But then I also think, we're alive.

We really shouldn't be. We are supposed to be dead. Where do we go from here?

And then I pass out, feeling Ron cup my cheek, pressing his lips against my sweaty skin.


	2. Two: Blazed

**Title:** I'm Not My Own  
**Summary:** Their life was based around the fact that they would die during the Final Battle. Yet, they didn't. The war is over, and they are still young, kids, now aimless as they figure out what to do with the rest of their life. What do they do now? HBP-compatible, D/Hr, post-Voldemort.  
**Rating:** Eventually R, but this chapter is only PG.  
**Warnings:** Sexual connotations, drug use, pretty much the usual you would expect from anything I write.  
**Disclaimer:** See first chapter.

_Two: Blazed _

It's not that the sex wasn't good. Shit, we partied for weeks. You would think it would have been one of those End of the World parties (here she would have mentioned a comparison with France's Reign of…Horror? Terror? And also, something to do with Cromwell, but I don't know, most of the time I barely listen) but it was more of Continuation of Life parties. We were smashed for _weeks_, literally. Hermione would be drunk, swaying and crying, at someone's memorial service, still knocking back shots from her flask during the funeral. And after those things we'd go back to Grimmauld's, grab a bottle, and then her sweat began to taste like whiskey underneath my tongue. I didn't realize it in the beginning but…well, it's already been said and done, eh?

I have my paper already thoroughly licked and I'm lining the green carefully – it's become a type of art form for me now – when she Apparates suddenly, a loud bloody bang that almost makes me break my concentration. She only says hello when she's pulled out red wine from her cupboard (it's really _my_ cupboard since it's my flat, but she always keeps it stocked and that's the first thing she searches for so I've deemed it hers from now on), and I remind her to give me a warning before she does that, and she says, Ronald, does it really matter all that much? Either way, I'll startle you.

I grunt in agreement and she asks, how's Luna?

I say, she's good. I think, Luna Luna Luna Luna. My adoring kooky girl, Luna.

She fills two glasses. I've rolled it carefully and now lick it again, it's of an average size, and I click the lighter on and run the joint through. Hermione tells me, that's disgusting.

I light the end and inhale, holding my breath, ignoring her comment and hold it out to her. She always says that, but we don't really say anything much about it because we all have our own ways with dealing our problems. Not that we really have problems. I know I should stop, but those words coming from Hermione makes me wants to quit when _I_ want to not because she keeps insisting it. Maybe this will be my last one. She shakes her head with a look on her face, and I take three or four more pulls before I let it out. I save the rest for later with Luna. Maybe after Luna and I finish this one it will be my last. Maybe it won't.

She's already on her third glass of wine, and as she takes sips, she leans her head against the top of my couch, and I rest my head on her lap. Surprisingly, she doesn't smell drunk yet, and her muscles are relaxed, and I trace the outline of her frame with my eyes, remembering that a rather long time ago I knew the body that was underneath the clothes she was wearing now. I take a deep breath and nestle closer, and she says:

Don't get too comfortable. Luna won't like it.

I know, I want to say, and I really should move but I think of how I'll have to raise my head, then my torso, and swing my feet around and that's so much energy in just changing my position that I agree with myself to move later because right now I don't feel like it and right now I am much too comfortable and I hope – I think – that she understands so I abandon telling her of my plan, just wondering if she understands, if we're on the same wavelength.

It's not that the sex wasn't good. We were in love, I know we were, or maybe it was just me. Or maybe it was just that we wanted to love each other. Isn't that how it generally is when you're young and scared, realizing how desperate life is? We haven't wasted our lives thinking we would live forever. I run my hand through my shaggy red hair, noticing how nice it feels even underneath my own fingers and as I do this, I think of how right we were that we were wrong for each other. We thought that we should marry, maybe have kids, but Merlin's beard, we were only 17, 18, at that time. And I think we both understood that I think – I think that even though she was my first and I was her first and that we had loved her and surely I never will be able to stop lover her since it's one of _those_ types of love, yeah?

Honestly, truly, we didn't even think we would have a future anyway. It was one of those spontaneous things where I said to Hermione after cuddling and tasting her lips, I want to marry you. But what I really meant, I don't want to die alone and unloved. Love me. And she said, okay, and maybe she was thinking the same thing, but later on, all she would say: I don't think this is going to work out. And I said, I don't think so, either.

And so it ended.

Even so, I still remember the feel of her around me, smelling her brown hair as we ground against each other, sitting up, on my bed. It was almost always slow, licking and sucking each other's skin; we were so tender, so tender with each other. Most of the time she would be gone by morning but I would still be able to smell her everywhere; she was everywhere, always around.

We agreed we needed to figure things out, we needed to get our lives together.

We laughed when we said that. It's a crazy world, I joked, and we laughed even harder even though it really wasn't that funny. And for some odd reason at that moment I remembered a time I had woken and she wasn't gone yet, and it was a dream – a memory – of her during a battle. I woke up in a sweat and whispered, that's the same girl. The same girl. I woke up trembling and scared shitless. I was so scared of her at that moment.

But now I push that from my mind and I angle my body to face hers; her lips are pursed; her brow furrowed; and I begin to think, and I know she is thinking, too, and I wonder what she's thinking and maybe we're both thinking the same thing. Maybe not. All my life I will be living in maybes. Will I ever escape? The smell of the room is beginning to smell like her, and it's her in my nostrils, and I'm thinking of our past. The memory…

Her hands stop mine and she says, Cut it out, Ron. My fingers have reached to tickle her sides, and Stop she repeats, and before I can test her, an owl taps at my window. She gently disentangles herself and opens the window, taking the note, and she says, it's Malfoy. I'll talk to you later, and she Disapparates.

I'm on the couch, lying still, breathing slowly, waiting for Luna and thinking bishop to G4…

Oh, how young we are.


End file.
